I have a bird of paradise;
Upon a springing cypress-tree
She sits for hours while daylight flies.
And not a song by day sings she.
Her back is of celestial blue.
Her head is purple; flaming dye
Upon her wings, of golden hue
Like dawn’s reflection in the sky.
Only when earth is slumbering.
Hidden, as night mists silent roll.
Upon her bough she starts to sing
So sweetly, sweetly to the soul.
That forced by it, your load of pain
Forgetting, you must sing away.
And in your heart each tender strain
Is a dear friend who comes to stay.
Often in tempests I have heard
That song which means so much to me.
And always for my peaceful bird
I listen, listen hopefully.
Есть птичка рая у меня,
На кипарисе молодом
Она сидит во время дня,
Но петь никак не станет днем.
Лазурь небес — её спина,
Головка — пурпур, на крылах
Пыль золотистая видна,
Как отблеск утра в облаках.
И только что земля уснёт,
Одета мглой в ночной тиши,
Она на ветке уж поёт
Так сладко, сладко для души,
Что поневоле тягость мук
Забудешь, внемля песни той,
И сердцу каждый тихий звук
Как гость приятен дорогой.
И часто в бурю я слыхал
Тот звук, который так люблю,
И я всегда надеждой звал
Певицу мирную мою!
«Down and away flew the melting snow; / cheeks burned red and glistened. / I had not thought the moon was so small / or the clouds so smokily distant. Asking for nothing, I’ll go away, / for my number is up, for ever. / I had not thought the moon was so fair / or so feaful up in heaven...»
«This, not graveyard roses, is my gift; / And I won’t burn sticks of incense: / You died as unflinchingly as you lived, / With magnificent defiance. / Drank wine, and joked — were still the wittiest, / Choked on the stifling air. / You yourself let in the terrible guest And stayed al...»
«After plodding year after year / through towns in an alien land, / we have ground enough to despair — / and despair is where we must end. For despair is our final refuge — / as if, midwinter, we had come / from Vespers in a nearby church, / through Russian snow, to our home.»
«Bring visions when you ring my bell / or all the loveliness of hell, / of God, if you belong to that band. / But little acts of meaning well — / just leave them outside on the hat stand. On this small pea in endless space / be shining angel or be demon. / But not mere man, though, for...»